December 17, 2019

who says you have to go anywhere?

The view from here: A shell-blue garage, an old-boned birch, the paisley leaves 
on a rocking chair’s hand-sewn pillow, the paper hexagon at the final inch of a tea bag, 
a dog with her tail curled under. There is the slightest hole in my right slipper. 
My wife is a few pages into a new novel, and the wrinkled throw gathered 
from the far end of the couch covers everything but a single grey-striped sock 
and the cuffs of her favorite jeans. There is much to be making of the day, 
a thousand battle axes to strike up against the thousand battles just beyond 
these coffee coasters flourished with pinecones, this brass lamp where a tiny, 
twin version of myself is leaning back on faded cushions. But first, 
I want to watch the snow come down. Just look at it—flake after flake after flake.